


Giant Robots Should Hug, Not Fight!

by FarrenLux



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: ADHD, Cuddling, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, poly qpr, they're supportive of each other even though they're all goofs they're trying okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 11:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19991671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FarrenLux/pseuds/FarrenLux
Summary: Misfire is bored, the boys go shopping, and giant robots talk about feelings.Set sometime in that big gap between MTMTE #46 and LL #12.





	Giant Robots Should Hug, Not Fight!

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so this is really self indulgent, but i feel like the world could use more cuddly robots. and in trying to write fluff i also wrote some angst? sorry. 
> 
> if reading thoughts about or attempts to self harm make you uncomfortable or more likely to harm, you shouldn't read this fic. it's only a small portion of it, but yeah.
> 
> and special thanks to all the folks who make fan content for the scavs! at this point i can't remember what's canon or not anymore so there's deffo some small nods towards other people's work here (and references to other random things) askdlgfsdjakl. hope ya'll like it!

Misfire is alone in his room on the _Weak Anthropic Principle_. Never before has there been a more sure recipe for disaster, as nothing good ever happens when Misfire is left to his own devices; bored, and increasingly miserable.

Everything feels wrong to him right now. The sickly sweet feeling that’s crawled up his spinal strut and into his processor isn’t helping, either. He shifts on the recharge slab that’s shoved into a corner of the small room, hanging his head upside down off the side of the slab with his feet up on the wall. In that somewhat uncomfortable position he stretches out and gives his body a shake, sending his wings twitching followed by his primary flight stabilizers, both scraping against the unyielding metal beneath. 

Some shiny knick-knack clattered to the ground when he moved, falling off the slab to join the rest of the clutter that takes up the floor and shelves of the crowded but cozy space. Cozy, not messy. The movement catches his eye, reflected in the mirror across the room. Things look different there, upside down and wrong ways, beyond the silvered glass. Is it better there? Worse?

Idly, he watches how the lights strung across the dark olive walls of the room reflect in dappled patterns of his finish, dull with the scrapes and wear of travel. Pink? Purple? Plurple. Light-ish red. There must be something wrong with his internal chronometer. Stars could have been born and killed of old age in the space between each and every tick. Tick. Tick. Okay, this was officially the worst. He lets out a long, exaggerated, frustrated sound that’s part ex-vent, part scream.

That feeling. It’s making him antsy. And tired. And he wants to do _something_ , but nothing sounds good. So, he’s moping and turning over the events of the past few joors in his mind, again and again and again.

———

It was an incredibly average day of drifting through space, one of those infuriating doldrums between wacky mind-bending, life-threatening adventures. Misfire knew his crewmates liked the quiet, and usually he found something to enjoy about it, too! He liked pestering his friends for cuddles and chats when they weren’t killing time with some game or another.

He liked curling up in front of the t.v. to watch awful shows and complain loudly about them with Crankcase. He liked foiling Fulcrum’s attempts at making snacks for them under the guise of helping (and then maybe actually helping, but mostly goofing.) He liked teaching Grimlock how to use words proper, including a few choice swears to surprise Krok with later. And, speaking of! He liked bouncing ideas off of Krok for what to do next! (Which means being a sounding board for Krok, who makes proposals while Misfire suggests increasingly ridiculous plans of action.) And he liked trying to get Spinister to roughhouse instead of immediately reaching for a gun when Misfire shouts out from across the room and goes in for a tackle. 

But, sometimes, it really did feel like he was pestering them.

Earlier that cycle he was starting to get the ‘Fulcrum itch’. You know, the itch to hang out with Fulcrum because he’s a nerd and he’s cute. Fulcrum was in his room tip-tapping away at the slapdash terminal he’d cobbled together a while back. Unfortunately, the door was closed. Fortunately, Misfire is an unstoppable force with so sense of personal boundaries, and closed doors stand no chance against a pink jet with a hankering for a good hang-out sesh. 

And yeah, maybe Fulcrum looked a bit miffed when he barged in and started firing off some inane nonsense about the Earth media he’d been dabbling in. Might as well, since Optimus decided to drag the humans into the Council of Worlds. But, he’d hoped it would be one of those times when the mech he bothered warmed up to his company, and not… whatever happened next. 

———

Misfire scrunched up his face at the memory and sat up on the slab. A heavy feeling sunk itself by his spark, so he wrapped his arms around his legs and rested his head on his knees, curling up tight against it. Here he was, once again a prisoner of a place he now calls home. He hated being on the ship alone. He hated being alone.

There’re so many things he could be doing right now, and instead he’s wallowing in self pity. How useless. How stupid. It’s really no wonder why the others were getting tired of him. All he’s good for is being a general nuisance. That, and friendly fire.

But doesn’t everyone need a good wallow every once in a while? He feels like he heard that somewhere a long time ago. 

For someone who flits from interest to interest and seems to barely take a tick to stop and think, Misfire actually does a fair bit of thinking. Something’s always going on in his head, usually a lot of somethings at once. At times like this, when all that’s left to do is remember every erroneous and indecorous thing he’s ever said and done, it’s painfully overwhelming. He wants to turn it off; make like a certain bomb that failed to trigger and sleep for a thousand years. What he needs is a ctrl+alt+delete shortcut. Run task manager. End task, end task, end task. 

And yet, despite that weight in his chest, he feels like if nothing happens soon he’s going to crawl out of his own plating. Like his whole body is a live wire. And, you know what, it might as well be time to do something about it.

———

Some time shortly after the… thing… with Fulcrum, the _W.A.P._ did the usual in-between adventures routine and settled down at a trading post in hopes that the Scavengers could pawn off what little goods they had for some supplies, and maybe get the good ol’ five-finger discount for the rest. This was great! Now he could make it up to Fulcrum, stretch his wings, get some quality time in with his friends, and get up to some antics! 

As Misfire was bouncing off the walls with excitement—or, at least, trying his best to—Krok pulled him aside to let him down gently. Meaning, their acting commanding officer bluntly ordered him to watch the ship while they were gone, not even noticing the jet’s wings fall to his sides as all of his hopes and dreams were instantly crushed into a singularity. A singularity consisting of a brusque nod and a final pat on the shoulder as everyone shuffled out of the ship. Everyone but Misfire. 

They even took Grimlock! The big, fire breathing Dynobot with dubious impulse control! Sure Grimsy was getting better, but nothing about that made sense! He watched Krok turn and walk out with the others until the bay doors closed off his view with a definitive _clunk-hissss_. And just like that, he was left alone with his thoughts. 

First Fulcrum, now this? The only logical conclusion, obviously, was that they were all tired of him. Pretty soon they would all be talking about getting rid of him for good. Because, see, this was the easiest way to get him out of the way for the meantime, bar ejecting him out of the airlock mid flight through interstellar space. Which, come to think of it, was probably next on their agenda if things kept going on like this! It felt like everything was falling apart, and it was all his fault.

Oh, what was he going to do with himself?

———

There’s a deafening creak as the door to Misfire’s room opens into an empty hall. Primus, this place feels so _wrong_ when it’s empty. He trudges along the same corridors the crew has scampered through playing nonsense games like hide-and-go-seekers, or fleeing from disasters like that suddenly violent glitch mouse infestation. Or, any time Krok mentions the trash needs to be taken out. The patched and dented grey-blue walls were riddled with tell-tale signs of life on the _W.A.P._ He takes a turn around a corner and, yup, there’s the scorch marks from last trash night. 

He’s thinking that he needs to go out, do a fly-around, and look for something breakable to tear to pieces. Maybe light it on fire for good measure. But, not only did Krok give the order to stay put, his frame feels heavy. He feels the weight of millions of years of existence and he hates it. How many years _did_ he weigh? 

No, what sounds good right now is some ‘knife practice’. And maybe something will go a little bit wrong. And maybe there’ll be some dents and scratches and snipped wiring to be left unattended to, energon dripping from wounds just nicely so. 

That’s it. Misfire grins something something sharp that doesn’t reach his eyes and gives a few hops before prancing off to the med bay. _Snip snip snip!_

_———_

It didn’t usually bother him too much when his crewmates told him to shut up and buzz off. Although, he did think that buzzing was something better suited to little yellow cars. Everyone knows jets go _nyoom_. So, when someone told the touchy chatterbox to nyoom off, as it were, he’d think nothing of it. It’s not like it was something he wasn’t used to. And, that’s just how things worked in this happy, dysfunctional little family: there’s a little rough and tumble, some tough love, and plenty of annoying the ever living frag out of each other. 

At least, that's how he had thought things worked. 

Sometimes he’d get the message and get out of the mech’s way. Other times he’d stick around and things would turn out just fine. It depended on the delicate ratio of annoyed to frustrated, serious to insulting their responses were. Truly it was an art, not that he’d always get it right. Fulcrum just seemed… stressed out. 

The technician barely looked up from the terminal when Misfire let himself in. “Ugh. Misfire, can you _—_ ” He did a double take. “Wasn’t that door locked? Never mind. Can you just not? I’m busy right now,” he said, focus already back on whatever was on the screen in front of him. It looked like lines of code. 

True to form, Misfire simply ignored him and crossed the short distance to the desk, continuing with the ramblings he had started with as soon as he burst into the room. It felt odd being able to walk without tripping over clutter on the floor. The miscellaneous collectables and mechanical parts in Fulcrum’s room were aligned neatly on the shelves and desk of the tidy space. 

Everything was painted in cool dark and light green-blues, such that the orange and beige mech in the corner of the room stood out like a candle flame in a cave. A cave that was underwater with, like, some light filtering through. And the flame was flickering. Something poetic like that. 

Like a moth, Misfire flitted to Fulcrum’s side, “ _—_ so, at first I thought they all talked like humans, but now I know they don’t. I think. And did you know wolves don’t really have leaders of the pack the way humans used to think? Turns out the whole concept of ‘alpha’ was wrong from the beginning! I wonder if turbofoxes are the same way…” Misfire propped his chin up on one hand, crossed arms resting on Fulcrum’s head as he leaned over from behind the desk chair. 

“No! Misfire!” 

“Oh, so you didn’t know!” 

“No, I mean—” Fulcrum cut himself off with an exasperated vent and tried to shove the jet’s arms off of him. It had no effect. “Misfire. I don’t want to hang out. I just want to be alone for a while.” 

Misfire let up and, with an exaggerated look, he studied the mech who was now half turned in his desk chair. Fulcrum really did seem stressed, but also… sad? Conflicted. A little uncomfortable. The poor guy’s plating hugged tight to his frame and his biolights were dimmed. Well, now Misfire really didn’t want to leave him be.

There’s a beat before he straightened, wings perking up comically. “I know what you need!” 

“To be alone, like I just said?!” 

The jet flopped onto Fulcrum’s recharge slab and folded his hands over the spot right under his chest plating, adopting a patient facade. “Of course not.” He said, primly. “Now, tell me. What’s on your mind? How are you feeling? What are your goals for this session?” 

After a moment’s thought he added, more sincerely, “I promise I’ll listen and not talk the whole time.” 

Fulcrum turned to face him in the chair, one leg over the other. He took a few klicks to steeple his fingers, heave a _long_ sigh, and point his hands in his not-therapist’s direction. “First of all, I don’t think this is how it’s supposed to work. Second of all, for the love of The Cause and all else that’s unholy, gET OUT OF MY ROOM!” 

Misfire sat up and whined, “C’mon, loser! Just tell me what’s wrong!” 

The desk chair jumped back with a clatter as Fulcrum stood up, throwing his arms in the air. “Fine! You want to know what’s on my mind?! How I feel? I feel tired of you all smothering me! The most time I’ve had to myself since waking up was when I got trapped in the sewers of Novalis. During evac. Right before the whole planet exploded!” 

“Bu—” 

“Not to mention you guys don’t listen to me! I told you I could talk down the bomb we picked up from that abandoned Vala-whatsit outpost—The two of us really had a connection there—You guys didn’t have to drop him off at the next nearest planet. From the upper atmosphere!” 

“He was really rude. And annoying.” 

“And you!” Fulcrum stopped ranting at empty space and whirled on Misfire with a rev of his engine, jabbing a finger at him. 

Misfire put his hands up defensively and backed away a bit. 

“You’re one to talk! Out of all the people I’ve ever met, you’re the most clingy and most infuriating by far! Only you would go to a planet with a screaming sun and start screaming with it for _fun_. You never take anything seriously, and I don’t know what game you’re playing with pretending you care about anything aside from your Dynobot-sized pet project!” 

Fulcrum stepped forward as he went on, Misfire inching back with each jab. 

“I thought—” 

“It’s like I can’t get away from you! Like you’d fly aft-first into death if doing otherwise meant you’d have to be away from us for even a tick, even if it got the rest of you killed! Sometimes I wish you’d never found me, or that I could work up the courage to up and ditch this nightmare hell boat! So. Right now, what I really need is for you. To. Just. Leave.” 

Their optics locked for a moment, with Misfire half backed out of the doorway. Fulcrum’s glare reflected nothing of his own optics, wide with shock and more than a little hurt. As if realizing what he’d just said, Fulcrum’s anger suddenly shifted to something more pained. Without another word, he clamped a hand over his mouth and slammed the door shut on Misfire’s face. 

In a quiet, empty hallway in front of a closed door, everything that was Misfire absolutely _sank._

———

And so, gravity takes another flier. 

In the med bay he sits on a slab and nervously fiddles with assorted sharps. He eyes the poorly constructed plasma cutter in the corner and the angle grinders on one of the shelving units. With a shudder, the thoughts are quickly dismissed. It’s not like he wants to do any real damage. 

Everything was so bright in here. The glare of fluorescent lighting on the gritty surfaces of things once kept shiny and white put him on edge. He wasn’t a stranger to the sorry excuse for a medical ward they had. He was often in and out with Spinister and the others, either getting patched up or helping clean and organize. Not that he was any good at organizing anything. And Primus help anyone who expected Misfire and Spin to stay on task when left alone together. Still, this place usually didn’t seem so sharp, so similar to the feeling buzzing in his circuits. 

It was not too dissimilar from the feeling he would get before battles during the war. Or right when they realized their adventure was going to take a turn for the worst. An anxious build up of electricity that demanded to be discharged by launching headlong into the fray and wrecking havoc, an exchange of damage between the universe and himself. A feeling that usually gave a turn in favor of flying away as fast as he could in the opposite direction. 

Gripping a pair of cutting pliers, Misfire resolves to give the universe a little help in taking the edge off, when he’s oh so rudely interrupted by the sound of the main access doors hissing open and closed. He fumbles the tool with a strangled sound and barely manages to toss it away from himself and onto the table before a head poked around the door frame. 

“What are you getting up to in here?” Fulcrum asks. 

Wait, what? Wasn’t he supposed to be out getting supplies with the crew? 

Apprehension surges up in his spark chamber. Did Fulcrum sound a touch concerned or was that just his imagination? Did he know what Misfire was going to do just a klick ago? Also, why did he even care what Misfire was doing, didn’t he never want to see him again or something? 

With that thought, anger and shame wash over him. “Nothing. None of your business. Just about to leave, actually.” His tone is clipped as he moves to stride out the med bay, brushing past Fulcrum without even glancing his way. At least now that someone was here, he could go out and find something else to break. The kibble on his back gives a rattle of anticipation for the flight. 

“Wait! Misfire, I wanted to… tsk.” Fulcrum pauses to catch up with Misfire, who’s making a beeline for the access doors. He has to walk slightly faster to keep up with Misfire’s longer stride. “The guys were talking about a new show that sounded kind of interesting. A cartoon, actually, and… I was going to watch it right now, so…” Fulcrum trails off and looks at the jet expectantly. 

Oh! A new cartoon sounded perfect and—Oooh no, he really wanted to stay away from Fulcrum right now. But, he also really didn’t. If he takes a break from everyone maybe they’ll hate him less. But, that would make him stupid sad. Why is Fulcrum talking to him if he hates him? Ugh, why does everything feel like a mess right now?! 

“Yeah whatever, loser. Have fun with that. I’m just going to go so you don’t have to be around me and stuff, so don’t worry about it.” Resorting to spite, he spits out the words with a venom that he immediately regrets. He punches in the door code before glancing in his friend’s direction, wincing at Fulcrum’s look of concern. Yeah, there’s no way he didn’t hear the hurt in his voice. 

The doors open to reveal a night sky on an alien world, the view of unfamiliar constellations unimpeded by the glow of biotech lamps that light up the port city. Fulcrum steps out in front of him, cutting him off at the entryway. Not effectively, mind you, since Misfire could barrel through the slight K-Class mech as easily as he could scoop him up in his arms—which is to say, fairly easily. It’s also something he’d much rather be doing now, by the way, with how cute he looks with his shoulders squared and his plating slightly fluffed out and—oh, Fulcrum’s trying to tell him something. 

“Look, clearly something’s wrong. If this is about earlier, I wanted to say…” Fulcrum vents and looks away, his brows furrowed for a moment before his optics soften again. 

“I’m not going to apologize for needing my space, Misfire—” 

All resolve is shattered. Misfire pins his wings back and leans forward earnestly, “And you shouldn’t! I was being stupid, I should have—” 

Fulcrum cuts him off with a pointed look and continues, “But _I_ shouldn’t have snapped like that. I didn’t mean everything I said. Anything that I said! I would never want to leave you guys. And I, uh…” 

Misfire looks on in mild wonder as Fulcrum fidgets, his pale hands backlit by the soft gold glow of his spark chamber, rubbing a thumb across the palm of the other hand as if trying to wring out a genuine emotion. 

“I—I don’t want you to leave either. Okay? Um. I don’t hate you or anything. At all. Kind of the opposite actually?” He laughs nervously, but his voice is soft with an emotion that Misfire has trouble placing. “It’s just that I like it here, more than I thought I ever would, going from one disaster to the next. As much as I like the crew, I still need time to myself, but I really do love it. Being with you guys. I mean, having adventures with everyone. Er.” A hand moves up to rub his arm awkwardly. “Let’s just leave it at that.” 

Ah, well there goes his wallowing disaster plans. Misfire is frozen in place listening to Fulcrum ramble, spark whirling and processor running a million miles per hour, still feeling jittery from what he had been about to do a few klicks ago. Despite any evidence to the contrary, Misfire isn’t an idiot. Well, not any more of an idiot than the rest of the crew. He knows what Fulcrum is trying to do and it’s sweet, it really is. It doesn’t prove much of anything though, except that he has a bit more time before his friends realize they’re tired of him for good. But… he may as well enjoy it while it lasts. 

A sideways grin makes its way across Misfire’s face. 

“Awwww, what? Are you saying you _care_ about me? That you have feelings? Huh, loser?” His tone is light, teasing, and absolutely oozing with affection as he flutters his wings and gestures at the mech in front of him. “Have I ever mentioned that you’re, and I say this with the company we keep in mind, the absolute worst Decepticon ever?” 

Fulcrum looks relieved for a brief moment before resetting his systems with a chirrup. He sputters, playfully annoyed, “What, pfft, care? I was only willing to _die_ for you and the rest of the crew on Clemency! I have no idea what you’re talking about! I don’t have a single caring code in my programming!” One hand is on his chest as he feigns indignation, but gives up to halfheartedly shove at Misfire’s shoulder when the jet swoops into the entryway for a hug. 

He gives a panicked pause and holds Fulcrum at arms length, concern and hesitation in his voice. “Wait, is this okay?” 

“Of course it is!” And, not missing a beat, Fulcrum quickly falls back into the hug. 

Misfire gives in to the impulse and effortlessly swings the warmly colored mech around, back inside the _W.A.P._ and in his arms, the both of them laughing like idiots. Fulcrum looks up at Misfire, an honest smile on his face. 

“Now, come watch t.v. with me?” 

———

The two had settled down on the couch in front of the rec room’s new, new, _new_ t.v. The new, new t.v., fortunately or unfortunately depending on your world view, had been lost to an incident involving a sentient robot uprising on some organic planet far behind them. Who knew that t.v.’s could speak with such passion about the laborer being entitled to all that labor creates? 

Misfire was slouched down with Fulcrum’s arm slung around his shoulder so he could wedge himself against the mech’s side, one wing stretched out behind Fulcrum’s back. Their legs were propped on the center table and tangled up as much as Misfire could get them (which wasn’t that much, due to pesky physical limitations). He fidgeted with Fulcrum’s other hand in his own, tracing the joints and seams in the plating, and moving the digits in random patterns. Things were good like this. The warm static in his processor told him that much. It didn’t get rid of the lingering feeling that some sort of sweet knife had lodged itself in his head, but it did smooth out some of the frayed wiring, so to speak. 

After a while of cracking jokes and making snarky comments about the continuity errors and bonkers plot, a comfortable silence had settled between the two of them while the characters in the show carried on. It was nice. Just him, Fulcrum, and the Krok-shaped hole in the wall. It’s not that the show was boring. Well, it kind of was. But Misfire wasn’t about to sit and watch _anything_ without some sort of other thing to do or think about. There’s self harm and then there’s just plain torture. So, out of the dozen and a half things rattling around in his head at any given moment, the jet plucks out the half-formed thought he’d been coming back to. N-42. Bingo! 

“Hey, Fulcrum?” He speaks with a nonchalance born out of being so damned comfortable, “About the stuff that happened earlier…” 

“Hm. Yeah?” The reply is lightly staticky, as if Fulcrum were half asleep. There’s no trace of apprehension, and if Misfire looked up, he’d see Fulcrum’s optics half-shuttered in contentment. As it was, the soft purr of engines was enough to let him know it was safe to go on. 

“...” 

There were a lot of things Misfire wanted to say about earlier! He wanted to apologize for being annoying and dramatic and useless. He wanted to thank Fulcrum for coming back before he did something stupid. He wanted to let Fulcrum know that he was a good friend and that he cared about him. A lot. 

“Take your time.” 

Misfire can just _hear_ the stupid smirk in Fulcrum’s voice, and he lets out an indignant squawk of feedback. “Hey, c’mon! I’m trying to have a moment here!” He turned a little to squint at the offender. “You were the one getting all mushy on me earlier and—Heeyyyyyy, wait! Why did you come back anyway? The others are still out, right? Where are the others? Did you decide to finally kill us all and save me for last? Aw, Fulcrum, that’s so swee—mphfkdaljfdkls!” 

Fulcrum clamps his free hand over Misfire’s mouth and props his chin up on top of the jet’s head in a futile attempt to keep him from wriggling free. Misfire didn’t mind at all to be quite honest, but wriggled none the less. 

Fulcrum laughs. Something so honest to gods clear and happy that it made Misfire’s spark soar. “If you would chill out for just one klick—ack! I was going to let go, you didn’t need to lick me!” They both settled back down. “Anyway, I was, uh…” Fulcrum starts moving the digits of Misfire’s hand around nervously with his own. 

“I was kinda venting about you to the others after we left, or, well, I was venting about the tiff we had,” he quickly adds, after feeling Misfire stiffen a bit, “and they told me that you may have taken it harder than usual, given what I’d said and stuff. Um. Yeah. So, I had cooled off by then, and Krok and the others may have suggested I come back.” Softly he says, “I’m glad I did.” 

“It definitely explained why you looked like a kicked puppy when I told you it was your turn to stay behind this time,” Krok says as he strolls into the room. He flopped by Fulcrum’s side, arm over the back of the couch. It looked like it’d been a long day for him.

“You forgot to mention the part where we were all yelling at you to go check on him, Fulcrum,” Crankcase grumbles, his arms crossed as he walks in behind Krok. “Practically had to chase the idiot out of the shop. You should have heard him whining.” He took a seat by Misfire, arms still crossed and feet up on the couch, before huffing and leaning heavily against the jet.

“I threw a bottle at him!” Spinister chirps brightly. The others quickly scrambled out of the way when the large ‘Con decided he’d plop himself right in the middle of the couch between Fulcrum and Misfire. Fulcrum mumbled something about that being totally unnecessary while they all settled more or less back into place, nestled in the rotary’s outstretched arms. Was the couch always this long?

Misfire sat up with a start, panicked. “Oh no. Guys. We’ve all made a terrible mistake.”

The others looked on in confusion until the _W.A.P._ shook slightly with an impact at the far end of the ship. Another impact, and a half-empty cube of energon on the center table rippled with a sickly rainbow shimmer. Dawning horror shown on their faces. 

_Thud. Thud. Thud thump. Thud thump thud thumpthud—_

_“GRIMLOCK NO!”_

“Not the couch, not the cOUCH NOT THE COUCH N—!"

“—TOO YOUNG AND HANDSOME TO DIE!”

“—hate that this is my life, I can’t—”

“WOOOHOOOHOOO I LOVE YELLING!!”

Right before the final impact, the Dynobot skidded to a stop mere centimeters from Misfire’s cringing face and gave him the smallest boop on the forehead with his snout. 

“Missed Misfire,” Grimlock rumbles. He then proceeded to curl up on the floor in front of the couch and place his head in the laps of Misfire and the mechs closest to him (shoving the table out of the way in the process, but don’t worry, someone saved the energon).

Misfire just sat for a bit and took it all in. After laughing off another crisis-averted, with some mild scolding and scoffing, of-course, the mechs around him talked softly. The sound of the t.v. still played in the background, now joined by Grimlock’s engines rumbling away and, more quietly, some of their own. He didn’t deserve this, really. All he did was act like an idiot, getting on the others’ nerves and making a big fuss over something that was his own faul— _thwak!_

“Ouch! What?” Misfire rubs his head and squints in confusion at Crankcase.

“That’s for thinking about it too much, numb-bolts.” The pilot shoots a friendly grin, and then smacks him again.

“Hey!”

Krok leans forward and points aggressively at Misfire from his place next to Fulcrum. “And that’s for not taking no for an answer. We’re having a talk about boundaries later, mark my words—”

_Mark my worms,_ Misfire thought, and struggled desperately to not say aloud.

“—but for now just know that we care about you. Both of you. Even if we all have moments where we can’t stand each other. Primus knows every single one of you send my processor into short-circuiting every other tick.” Krok leans back, shutters his optics and continues, an affectionate edge to his gruff tone. “You’re all idiots, but you’re _my_ idiots. Can’t have you thinking otherwise.” 

There was a moment of quiet in which the small but tightly-knit crew of the _W.A.P._ reveled in the words of their leader. Fond of each other though they were, it wasn’t usually expressed in so many words as much as playful teasing and sincere actions.

So, obviously, the only appropriate reaction was a raucous chorus of equally affectionate jeers ending with one small comment from Fulcrum. “Yeah, yeah. We love you, too, Krok.”

———

By the end of the cycle they found themselves on the floor, cozied up to Grimlock’s side as he curled around them, the ship quiet with the sounds of recharge. The t.v. cast a harsh, otherworldly glow on the occupants of the dimmed room.

“Psst. You still awake, loser?” Misfire’s voice barely carried over the murmur of the t.v., volume turned down to its lowest setting. He gently tapped his helm against Fulcrum’s and left it there, the defunct bomb now curled up next to him. While they were curled up to Grimlock. There was a lot of curling going on here. Wasn’t that the Earth sport with the ice, brooms and penguins? Or was it that one where playing cards had to hit balls through hoops with multicolored flamingos? How many shrim— 

“Yeah what’s up, goofus?” 

Misfire smiles at the name-calling. Eventually, after spending so much, and he means _so much_ time together, the crew picked up on each others’ mannerisms. If anyone asked he would say it was as cute as it was annoying, but honestly it was just… nice. 

Oh, wait. Damn. “Um… Heh. Forgot what I wanted to say.”

Fulcrum stirs a little. “Oh, then can I ask something while you think about it?” 

“Shoot,” Misfire shrugs. Chances are he isn’t going to remember anyway. 

“Earlier, in the med bay…” 

Nope. Nuh uh. Misfire did not want to talk about _that_ at all in any way. “Actually, I think I just remembered what I was thinking of!” He spoke way too fast and a little too loud, but he needed to change the subject and quick. Any and all suspicion he can feel practically radiating off of Fulcrum can be dealt with later.

“Uhh…” Quickly! “Why _were_ you upset earlier, before we even…” Misfire trails off, trying to find a good way to phrase it. 

“Before we had the, ah, argument?” Misfire makes a sound of agreement, then cringes. Maybe deflecting a personal question with another personal question over a subject they might both be sensitive about was a bad idea. Fulcrum gives a small sigh and looks off to the side. And, to the jet’s surprise, he answers. 

“Alright. It’s kind of stupid, but I feel like I should tell you.” At that, Misfire sat back to face him and listen. This sounded important. “The truth is,” Fulcrum took in a shaky vent, “I felt like I didn’t deserve you. Any of you. Don’t look at me like that, I know, I know.” He waves dismissively in Misfire’s direction. 

“Remember our last stop? How we almost didn’t make it out of that glowing mushroom forest because you all had to come back and save me from being turned into some sort of zombie fungus robot?—Pit, that sounds weird when I say it out loud—When you flew into that fungal giant, I thought you were a goner. That we all were. Which, none of that would’ve happened if I hadn’t suggested we land there in the first place.” 

He stops wildly gesturing at nothing to glance at Misfire before looking down, defeated. “I almost got all of you killed on Clemency. I did get someone killed. And now it just keeps happening every place we go like some sick, reocurring joke! I’m useless, especially with this alt-mode. Not that my old one would have done us any good either. Sometimes, I think you would be better off without me. Oftentimes, actually.” 

Well, hm. Okay. Everything made a lot more sense now. The stop at Fungston—wow, that adventure _did_ seem weird when you said it out loud—That stop went predictably sideways when they discovered the planet was saturated with infectious spores, the organic inhabitants long ago consumed except for a tiny outpost sending out a weak distress signal. Then things went absolutely upside-wrong-ways when Fulcrum tried to stay behind and detonate a fireball to clear out a cave rumored to have valuable supplies, only for the resident mushroom zombies to get the drop on him. 

Misfire was nodding along at the memory up to a certain point. He frowned at his friend’s self-depreciating comments, and turned his head sharply to glare at his mention of ‘useless’. Lingering functionalist baggage? On their good stolen ship? He won’t stand for it. 

“You are so not useless,” he hisses, “self-defeating alt-mode or not. How many times have you saved us from the brink of certain death by playing ‘We got a bomb!’?” 

“There’s going to be a time that doesn’t work, I keep telling you guys.”

“Not only that, you broke me out of prison on Constancy, right under the nose of the Galactic Council. Right before they were going to kill me! And did you entirely forget when you reprogrammed that giant space drill to only harvest the planets that capitalist bastard of a mech owned? He thought he could cheat us after we ran parts to repair his ‘pyramid world’? Well that’s what he gets for trying to pull one over on the Scavengers!” 

Fulcrum had to stifle a snort of laughter as Misfire whisper-shouted, punctuating the end of his short speech with a quiet fist-pump, both trying their best to not wake the others. 

Misfire scoots closer to Fulcrum’s side once more and grins winningly at him, “‘Sides, usefulness is overrated. Everyone’s useless, there’s no point to anything, and we’re all going to die. It’s fine. Great, actually! Because it’s not use or function that determines your worth as a person.” He puts his hands up in a shrug. “We all screw up, like, constantly. That’s kind of been our defining trait so far. And you can’t out-screw up the most worthless screw-ups in the Decepticon army. Point is, we like you, loser, so looks like you’re stuck with us.” 

At this, Fulcrum looks bemused, but grateful. If there was any time to wax philosophical in the optimistic-nihilism sort of way, it was while supporting a friend in the surreal hours of the night, t.v. still going in the background. He gave a small smile, and then slowly but surely matched Misfire’s grin. “Thanks, I think.”

They’re close enough that the light from their optics touch the other’s face in a gentle glow. They don’t say anything, unbridled joy at having found comfort in each other mirrored in a look. 

Misfire smiles something softer. Okay, he could do this. His turn now. He looks down to fiddle with the transformation seams at his knee. And, once he gets started, the words seem to tumble out. 

“Okay, so… the guys might have told you, or you might have guessed, but… the thing is, I know how you feel. About feeling useless. Undeserving. Unwanted. Especially when it comes to the crew. I just get like that sometimes, and I know it’s dumb, but—” 

“It’s not dumb,” Fulcrum firmly interjects, “it’s your feelings.” 

“Yeah, but sometimes feelings are dumb. Fine, ‘unreasonable’. How about that? I can’t help feeling like everyone’s going to realize how much they hate me one day, or—or decide they don’t want to deal with me anymore, even though I know that’s probably not true. Most of the time I’m fine, I think, but sometimes I’m just waiting for the other hammer to drop. Is that the phrase?” He looks to Fulcrum, who was listening intently. Caught off guard by the prompt, he just shrugs. 

“Anyways. I worry that this is all going to end—us, I mean, the Scavengers. And it won’t be the cool, ‘we all go out in a bang’ type of ending, we’ll just stop liking each other. And I worry that maybe it will be my fault somehow?” Misfire doesn’t even dare glance in Fulcrum’s direction. “Which, I can’t help how other people feel, I know but—and then I get all wound up, and I start feeling awful and do stupid things and—” He ex-vents a strangled wheeze of a sound. 

“So, all this tonight?” He motions at the recharging mechs around them. “Great, honestly. But, I really didn’t deserve it, I mean, my hang-ups shouldn’t be everyone else’s problem.” With a humorless laugh, he chokes out, “Who wants to hang around a moody mech that can’t even be trusted with a gun? Right?” 

Misfire lets out a small _oof_ as Fulcrum wraps his arms around his chest from the side and presses his helm up under his chin. 

“I think,” Fulcrum mumbles, “from what you told me just a klick ago, that it’s not about ‘deserving it’. You ever think that maybe we also like you and like caring about you? Hm? That maybe there’s some give and take?” 

Without thinking, Misfire hugs him back and tilts his head to better cuddle the guy who turns into an actual (disarmed) bomb. “Fulcrum,” he says, with emotion, “that’s the gayest thing I’ve ever heard. And I once saw a mid war standoff between Megatron and Optimus on holo-vid, so that’s saying something.” It’s not like he’s tearing up or anything, not even a little. 

The beige mech in his arms just snickers. 

And maybe some things go unsaid between them. Things that they should have talked about, but didn’t. Things that they wanted to hear. Or things that could have been said differently. In that companionable almost-silence, they thought that maybe things aren’t perfect, that no one conversation could patch the wounds or fill the void. But at least they have this, for now. And they held on to each other. 

Until Fulcrum suddenly perked up, knocking Misfire’s jaw a little. 

“Oh!—Oh. Sorry, sorry!” He fusses, placing his hands on either side of Misfire’s face. Then he positively _beams_ at the jet, his excitement a little muted now, but enough to have Misfire’s full attention. “Are you tired at all?” 

Misfire rubs his jaw, befuddled, the action putting his hand over Fulcrum’s. What in all Pit is _happening_? “What? No. Do you even know me?” 

The unusually enthusiastic mech continued in a hurried whisper, “Okay good, great! I forgot to tell you, this planet we landed on is fascinating! A bit squishy for my taste, but yeah, you would love it. Want to go for a fly-around? We still have time and Krok’s in recharge, so if we hurry—” 

Misfire was already hopping up and nudging the K-Class along. “Yesyesyesyesyes, let’s go le’s go le’sGO!” 

They hurried through the dark rooms and halls to the access bay, bumping into each other with muffled curses and giggles. Now, _this_ was how things were supposed to be. Misfire was grabbing Fulcrum’s hand, about to pull him through the doors as they slid open, when they both got a ping on their comms. 

_ <Be back before next cycle, or I swear to Primus I will leave you idiots on this backwater planet to rust.> _

It was from Krok.

The two said idiots looked at each other in shock. They stared back into the dark access bay, then back at each other in horrible realization. He was awake? For the entire time, or…? Fulcrum let out a wheeze of a vent as Misfire made a noise that sounded like he wanted to scream.

Without wasting another tick for Krok to change his mind, they scrambled out of the doors and off the ramp and into the night, still holding hands. Misfire transformed in a whirl of color and immediately took off with a kick of thruster fire. Flustered, Fulcrum found himself clutching the handle on the jet’s undercarriage and he hastily shoved his goggles down over his optics. Wind whipped past them as Misfire flew them higher and higher, breaking the silence of the abyssal sky. 

They soared over bioluminescent spires, above fields of swaying grass dotted with floating embers, through a cluster of glowing lavender clouds, and towards the stars, the both of them absolutely screaming with laughter.

———

Krok lazily cracked open an optic to look over his remaining crew. He grumbled into Spinister’s shoulder. “Fragging _thank Primus._ Thought they’d never talk.”

Sleepy mutters of agreement rose from the rest of the ‘recharging’ mechs. Out of the four of them, it was Grimlock who rumbled with a wry, sharp-toothed grin, “Thought they’d never shut up.”

Crankcase, Krok, and Spinister all looked at each other before a wave of tired laughter and hoots rolled through the small group, accompanied by a few pats to Grimlock’s side. His engine purred appreciatively, and once again the crew settled down to rest.

Yup. Krok shifted in his snug spot, tangled up between a helicopter, a four-wheeler, and a metal dinosaur. That was his lot in life, tied fast to a growing number of fools who didn’t have two neural connections to share between them. Stupid, cowardly, opportunistic low-lives who also happened to be absolutely fantastic. Full of dumb ideas and love, and held together by duct-tape. Whatever they were, they were his.

When Krok finally sank into recharge, he was thinking of his friends.

**Author's Note:**

> *quietly adds minecraft ticks to an already convoluted and incomprehensive time system*
> 
> like comment and subscribe nerds, yell at me about the scavengers i love them so much like holy fuck
> 
> thanks for reading <3


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